The Blogger In An Empty Flat
by Abajugungi
Summary: The therapist said putting up one more post on John's old blog would help him, but he never expected THIS. Sherlock is back from the dead, and is dragging his friend on another whirlwind adventure. Based on The Adventure of the Empty House by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing.
1. Waiting on a Miracle

_Goodbye, John._

The words echo through my numb mind, sometimes soft and quiet, sometimes loud as a jackhammer, but still those two words. Lingering there. Always lingering. Even after two months of reading paper after paper, they linger. Two months of watching the bold headlines dwindle and sink further into the depths of the news, morphing from a shocking story of a genius's suicide into an article about how everyone knew he was a fake, into a few lines about his deceit, into a small picture with a caption on the back of the page into an absence of the detective in the public's eye at all.

_Why are you here, John?_

She knows why I'm here. I'm here because my best friend, my _only_ friend, my only connection to the world I love and once knew, is dead. But she makes me say it anyway, and I choke on the words.

_He's dead._

She tells me that grief is natural, that what I'm feeling will pass eventually. I thought it would too. I hoped and prayed it would, hoped against hope, against the dull, throbbing pain that emerged in my leg the moment Sherlock's body hit the ground. I hoped, even as I lifted that coffee cup with my left hand and saw it start to tremble. I hoped, even as, one day, after procrastinating and procrastinating and procrastinating, I buckled and grabbed that hateful cane out of its long-forgotten corner. The hope is gone now. I watched as the hope stood tall on the edge of despair, and took a step forward. I watched as my friend did the same, night after night. I dreamt I was there. I dreamt that I could help, but I didn't. I stood there, watching his lips form the words _I invented Moriarty, _watching his dark form tumble through the air.

_There was nothing you could have done._

I could have saved him. I could have prevented it all happening. It's my fault, all of this grief, this sorrow, this endless, mind-numbing pain, because I did something I never should have.

_Don't turn people into heroes, John. They don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them._

He _was _a hero, though. And I let him grow bigger and bigger in my mind, turning into more than a man, into more than a hero, into more than a legend. Swollen with his own genius, his own intellect, until he was perfectly giant.

_The bigger they are, the harder they fall, isn't that the saying?_

I'm still waiting on that miracle, Sherlock.

-x-

"It's been two years to the day," is how I begin this particular therapy session, "and it doesn't hurt any less."

The eyes of my doctor, hopeful for a breakthrough on this, the second anniversary of his death, flash disappointment. I sigh. Not a long-suffering sigh, like in the days when I still lived at 221b Baker Street with Sherlock, but a drawn-out, sad type of sigh layered with remorse.

"Don't wait for it to hurt less, John," the woman in front of me says, "wait to become accustomed to the pain." I look out the window and try to breathe past the aching of my heart.

"I am accustomed to the pain. I've been accustomed to it for a long time." A crease appears between my eyes as I glare out at the world, still turning.

"Shouldn't it at least fade, just a little bit?" I ask, almost angry. "Shouldn't I be able to hold my hands out steady? Shouldn't I be able to walk?" With an impatient gesture, I fling my cane away from me. It hits the floor with a dull thud.

"John, you have to be patient…" She begins, but I don't let her finish.

"I've been patient for two years. I'm not going to be patient anymore."

My words drop out of my mouth like stones, and they thump down onto the carpet by my cane. Subject closed. For a few moments there is silence, and I examine the squared tips of my fingers.

"You've started blogging again," the woman begins, shuffling her notes around in my file and shifting positions in her chair.

"Yeah, a little bit."

"But not on your old blog?"

"No. I've started a new one. Only my sister reads it, and evidently you as well."

"I think you should put something else on there, John. The old blog. A finale post, if you will."

"I did that already," I sigh. My fingers reach up to my forehead and try to iron out the mile-deep wrinkles.

"I know, but that was so short of an entry, and so long ago. Try to post something else, something that commemorates the memory of Sherlock better. I think that will help you get over him."

For a moment I sit, staring out the massive window into the garden.

"Promise me you'll try?"

I don't answer for what seems like forever. "Sure I'll try."

-x-

I sit in my small, cold, pristine flat, so unlike the homely cluttered thing I had shared with Sherlock. My cane sits ready at my elbow as I open my laptop.

_It's been a while._

My fingers type the four words into my old blogging page. Then they freeze. What else is there to say? What more could they possibly want from me, the best friend of a fake detective? My left hand trembles over the keys.

_I know that most of you probably don't even read this blog anymore, but…_

My eyes flick to the right of the screen where the number still sits, frozen at 1895. It's been stuck for two years. Just like me.

_But I thought that those few true fans deserved more than those sparse last words. So I've decided to tell the whole story of his death. The real story, though, not what you've been hearing on the news. The story that no one likes to hear, the story straight from the horse's mouth, as the saying goes._

"Straight from the horse's mouth." I repeat the words out loud. "Come on, then, Sherlock. Tell your story."

The laptop slams shut and I limp out the door.

-x-

The red-eyed waitress serves me my tea at the dimly-lit restaurant where Sherlock had once cured me of my limp.

"Can I get you anything else tonight, Dr.?" she asks. I've become somewhat of a regular during her shift.

"No, Mary, thank you." She nods and walks away, leaving me alone with the small porcelain cup. I raise it to my lips, hand trembling slightly. The rain tapping on my window is the only sound to be heard.

"You might want to blow, good doctor," A very familiar voice sounds behind me, "The tea they serve here is scalding."

Startled, I dart around to see an old, thin man, eyes half-lidded and covered in cataracts, hunched over a piece of toast with jam. In my haste, the tea sloshes over the edge of my cup.

I curse as the liquid soaks through my trousers and burns the skin below.

Instantly the man behind me apologizes, and I look up from the blossoming stain to his face, sagging jowls covered in grey stubble, ears protruding, forehead veiled by a brown fedora.

"Terribly sorry to give you a fright, sir," he mumbles.

"No, it's quite alright." Having heard his voice again, it sounds much less like Sherlock's. It's too gravely. Too shaky.

"You just reminded me of a friend, that's all." Abandoning my tea, I stand up and walk to the door, stumbling slightly. The old man's hand brushes my side as he steadies me.

"Thanks."

"It's the least I can do."

And then I am in the rainy night air, calling a cab to take me home.

-x-

The cab drives away before I check my trouser pocket for my key. My hand reemerges with nothing but a ball of lint and some coins. I can feel the misty rain soak through my jacket, the clouds all but obscuring any light from the sky.

A sigh slips out, this time _extremely_ long-suffering. It's nearly two in the morning. Nobody will answer if I buzz.

"Excuse me, Doctor," The same voice from the restaurant calls out, and I look around, leaning heavily on my cane as I turn. Through the drizzle I see the old man, already wet to his skin.

"You dropped your keys by my table," he explains, "But you left before I could say anything. I hope you don't mind I followed you home." A thin hand proffers my keys, glinting in the dull streetlight. Gratefully, I take them.

"Do come in and dry off," I say as the door swings open.

His steps are soft behind me as we enter.

"May I use your bathroom?" he asks, and I nod. In a moment, he is gone and I am at my table, the laptop open and beckoning. I've decided to have another go at the blog post.

"As the saying goes." I murmur what I wrote last, all thoughts of the strange old man in my bathroom out of my mind.

_So here it goes._

As I write the story, a weight seems to lift off my shoulders. I'd never addressed the details before, not to Mrs. Hudson, not to Molly, not to any of my mates at work, not to anybody. Not even to myself. Once or twice, my cheek tickles and I reach to scratch it, surprised when my hand comes away wet. I hear the sound of the man opening the bathroom door as if it's from far away.

_"Goodbye, John."_

_Then with a flick of his wrist, he tossed his phone to the side. Those long, thin arms spread wide, allowing the wind to catch and tug at his jacket. He looked like a great bloody bird, about to take off. But he didn't take off. He leaned forward. And then he fell._

The memory bubbles up to the surface again, and I feel the same shock, the same agony, the same horror. Only this time, I let myself feel. I let it wash over me, along with all those memories of Sherlock. Happy and sad. Annoying and exhilarating. Every adventure we ever had together, I relive in a fraction of a second, and when the tide of memories ebbs, I feel a little better. A little lighter. Something lifts in the back of my brain, and the corners of my mouth do too.

The blinding pain I felt when Sherlock died is now more of a remembered ache.

_This, John, is what we call a breakthrough, __I can hear the words of my therapist, echoing from the future. I smile, fully this time. A breakthrough._

"What are you so happy about?" Sherlock's voice seems to say.

I click the post button on the blog and scoot my chair out, leaning back and setting my arms on the arm rest, suddenly exhausted from the long day.

"You're dead, and I'm okay with it." I let out a little laugh. A few seconds pass, then I repeat more softly, "And I'm okay with it."

"How okay with it?" Again, Sherlock's voice sounds. I think I should be worried, hearing it so clearly in my head, but I'm too tired to care.

"Very."

"Well then, this situation might be a little awkward." Sherlock's voice takes on the normal, sarcastic tones I am so used to.

"Wait… What situation?" The creases between my eyebrows reappear as I realize the voice isn't coming from my head.

It's coming from behind me.

I pop out of my chair and spin around.

There he stands, clad in the familiar black coat, the familiar purple scarf, the familiar dark curls falling over the familiar blue eyes, the familiar angular cheekbones, complete with that look of astounding arrogance and the air of marvelous superiority. His presence is strange in this room, too real and too shocking. I almost fall over from surprise.

Because there in my flat, leaning ever so casually on the doorframe, stands the one and the only Sherlock Holmes.


	2. The Unexpected and the Less Unexpected

For a long moment, I stare. Just stare. He has detached himself from the doorframe and stepped forward a step, his hands spread palm up in a gesture of supplication. On his face is a smile, the exact type of confident smile an actor gives his audience after finishing his play.

"So… What was that about being over me?"

It takes three seconds for me to cross the room. Only one second passes from the time I reach him to the time he's lying flat on the floor, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose as I uncurl my aching fist.

"What. The. _Hell." _The words tear themselves from my mouth.

Sherlock lies there, a stunned look on his face.

"You were _dead." _The neighbors can probably hear my yelling, but I don't care. I don't care at all.

"Yes, about that—"

"DEAD!" I run my hands through my hair and pace a few steps away, then turn back to my prostrate resurrectee and point an accusing finger.

"Two years, you were gone. TWO YEARS! No letters, no phone calls, nothing! You jumped of that building and left me thinking it was MY FAULT, without even a WORD!"

"Actually—"

"SHUT UP!" He's sat up by now, leaning against the drab couch, a hand wiping away the blood from his nose. I shock him into a surprised silence.

"I went back to therapy because of you! I hadn't been back for TWO YEARS. And that CANE. That stupid, damnable, useless CANE!" I pick it up and shake it angrily in his face, balanced aggressively on the balls of both feet.

Both feet.

"It seems my reappearance has fixed that particular grievance," Sherlock observes cautiously from the floor, breaking the momentary silence that had fallen. My resulting glare succeeds to quiet him.

With a steady hand, I twist a chair around and sit, facing Sherlock. He shifts on the carpet uncomfortably. A heavy, dark, brooding silence settles on the air as I shake my head.

"So." The anger has dropped out of my voice, leaving a cold and menacing tone.

"…I'm not quite sure what that means."

"How did you do it? Why did you do it? And why are you back?"

"That's a rather long story—"

Hearing the hesitant tone in his voice, I jump in, "Well we have time, don't we? There are two years we need to make up for, and I'm assuming you, being dead and all, couldn't possibly have any previous engagements." My voice is coated in a dry sarcasm.

"Well actually…" He trails off, looking somewhat sheepish. For a moment I can hardly speak.

"You idiot," is my disbelieving response. "You have a case." I lean forward and prop my elbows on my knees, rubbing my face in a long-suffering sort of way."

"It's actually why I came back on this particular night," Sherlock stands up and fixes his collar, knocked askew by my punch. "I need your help."

-x-

Lestrade steps out of the warm station into a faint drizzle, popping up the collar of his coat to block the cold. The water that had collected on the fabric slides down his spine, making him shiver.

It had been another painfully long day at work, with the cases piling up around him. All of them the same, people found shot in their apartments, windows open, doors locked, the only possibly sniping vantage point almost two hundred meters away… A long, stressed sigh pulls its way out of Lestrade's throat.

_If only Sherlock…_

He stops himself before the thought completes itself. Sherlock wasn't there. Sherlock had tricked him, and Sherlock had almost lost Lestrade his job. Sherlock was a fake, and now he was dead.

Not that Lestrade believes that, of course. The part about being dead, that is. If the mysterious man was smart enough to make people believe he was a genius, he sure as hell was smart enough to fake his own death. And then there's Molly. The girl was so in love with Sherlock. And after his death, she hadn't seemed broken at all. On the contrary, nowadays she seems quite happy.

No, Lestrade doesn't think Sherlock is dead.

But still, dead or not, he isn't here to help solve cases, which means Lestrade is left alone.

Lestrade waves a damp hand at a taxi, but it doesn't stop. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

_Imbeciles, _He thinks angrily, _If they think I'm coming back in to help them with work at two in the morning…_

Lestrade flicks out his phone and checks the number. It's John Watson. Odd. They haven't spoken in at least a year. More curious than angry now, he opens the text.

_Lestrade. I'm not dead. Meet me across from 221b Baker Street. –S.H._

He almost drops his phone in surprise. Surprise, he notes, but not shock. Deep down, he has been expecting this.

_You have some explaining to do._

Almost the second he hits the send button, his phone buzzes again.

_All in due time. Bring your revolver._

What an exciting notion.

With the faintest thrill of anticipation, Lestrade tries again to wave down a cab.


	3. Keeping Lestrade in the Figurative Dark

The faint streetlight filters through dirty windows, casting a glow of neglect into the room. A thick layer of dust covers every surface. Old books sit abandoned on the table, unopened for more than two years. Nothing has been moved. Nothing has been touched.

My first step into the empty flat sends a small cloud of dust up into the air. I pause, just inside the doorway.

"You couldn't have cleaned it?" Sherlock says, a faint hint of disdain in his voice. He sweeps past me and throws himself onto the couch.

"I didn't live here anymore. Besides, when have you ever cared about being _clean…_" I fade off as I lower myself slowly into my old chair, propping my elbow on the armrest and holding my chin in my hand. For just a second, I let the familiarity of this scene wash over me. The yellow smiley face in the wall, the black-cloaked figure prostrate on the sofa, the old softness of what used to be my favorite seat…

"Lestrade should be here in just a moment," Sherlock pipes up, the glow of my phone illuminating his face. I hear the button click as he sends a text.

"You… you stole my phone," I'm not sure if I should be frustrated or ecstatic. Only ten minutes ago, I would have exploded at his pickpocketing with rage. Only a few hours ago, I would never have dreamed of this happening.

"Borrowed," is the quick response. The phone flies through the air. I catch it with a practiced hand.

My thumb wanders over the engraving on the back, the scratches around the charging port. All of the little details he had used to guess everything about me, that very first day. Sometimes still I look back on the day we met, the day he had dragged me into his life of adventure, the day he had healed me, the day I had, inexplicably, fallen into trust with Sherlock Holmes.

The trust which, apparently, is still holding strong.

He has already explained to me how he faked his death. The truck to catch his fall, the fake puddle of blood, the ball under his arm to stop his pulse, that coroner Molly to pronounce him dead… All of it in precise facts told to me on the ride over. But the Why? Why pretend to kill yourself in the first place?

That answer was startlingly vague.

_Moriarty found my weakness._

And he wouldn't say another word about the subject.

"You still haven't told me what we're doing here," I say, breaking the silence that has fallen.

"All in due time. Do you have your revolver?"

"Always."

"Excellent." His fingertips touch together lightly under his chin as he sits back, eyes alight with excitement. Outside, the misty rain has swelled into a downpour. The drops hit the window with loud, pelting dribs.

A smile curled on his cheek.

"This night promises to be exciting."

-x-

The engine of the cab seems to roar as it pulls down the strangely abandoned road, leaving Lestrade alone in the rain. Almost alone. One homeless man is asleep against the side of a building, almost completely covered with a ratty blanket. With hurried strides, Lestrade passes him. His shoulders are tense with a hardly-concealed excitement.

_If Sherlock is really back… _The hope in his thought threatens to overflow into a smile. If Sherlock is really back, that means Lestrade will have, once again, the most brilliant man he had ever met on his side. Not to mention the effect it will have on his job… Lestrade's career had taken quite a hit when Sherlock professed to be a fake. The chief had even called him in and demoted him to an assistant for trusting him with valuable police information. Donovan wasn't that lucky. Her badge had been taken away entirely. Lestrade has managed to retrieve his previous position as detective, but if Sherlock isn't actually dead, if he isn't actually a fake, imagine how much success that will bring Lestrade's division. Sally may even come back on the force. Those two will be able to bicker and wail during cases, just like they did two years ago.

Lestrade realizes he has a grin on his face. He can't allow that. Carefully, Lestrade arranges his features into a sour expression before he reaches the address.

The door is open as Lestrade ascends the stairs of Baker Street, but there is no light on inside. No violin music wafts to his ears. Silence pours out of the hallway. Suddenly apprehensive, Lestrade raises his hand to push softly on the wood of the door. It swings open. He hesitates. Something isn't right.

Suddenly, his pocket buzzes.

_Change of plans. Meet in building across from apartment. Door unlocked. Third floor. Move quickly. Danger is afoot. _

_ -S.H._

Hardly a second later, Lestrade is jogging across the street to his new destination.

-x-

I watch confused from the window as Lestrade checks his phone and exits the doorway of our apartment.

"What is that all about, I wonder?" I look to Sherlock who, unsurprisingly, has my phone again. He taps at the keyboard some more, then flips it closed and hands it to me.

"It's all part of the plan, John."

"What plan exactly?" Sherlock just smiles a close-mouthed smile and jumps up from his position on the couch. He is at my side in a moment, peering through the window hungrily. His glance hits a tall window directly across the street from us. A bright light is on behind the shade, and a silhouette which is obviously Lestrade's is thrown into sharp relief. He paces back and forth a few steps. The shadow stops. Lestrade sits on a chair, still in full view of the window.

"We are going to catch ourselves a killer. Watch."

Again I look through the window for any sign of movement on the deserted, damp street. There is nothing. Then…

"There he is," Sherlock's voice is an elated hiss, a long finger pointing to the homeless man who, seconds before, had been loitering at the foot of our building. Now the man was standing up and pulling a long, black box out from under his blanket, striding purposefully toward the door of 221b. Baker Street.

"One of the most accomplished assassin of all times," anticipation is bubbling through Sherlock's strained whisper, "and we're about to catch him. Hide!"

Down the stairs, a door groans open.

-x-

The room Lestrade enters is big and empty, with just a little bit of streetlight making its way through the covered window. He blinks, confused. Sherlock is supposed to be here, isn't he?

Lestrade's pocket buzzes again.

_Follow my instructions exactly._

_ -S.H._

He waits a few seconds.

_Turn on the floodlight. Angle the light so your shadow hits the window, do NOT stand directly in front of the window. Your life may depend on it._

_ -S.H._

Lestrade looks blankly at the text, not quite understanding what was being asked of him. About four seconds later, the screen lights up with one more message.

_And do be quick about it._

_ -S.H._

A long-suffering sigh escapes from his lips. He had never known Sherlock's plans before, why should he now? Resignedly, Lestrade sets out to accomplish his task.

-x-

"I can't believe you're using Lestrade as _bait_," I whisper indignantly, sinking into the shadows of a corner. Sherlock begins his response, but the muffled creak of a footstep cuts it off short. The assassin has reached the stairs.

Sherlock waves his hand for silence, and then motions drawing a pistol. I mirror. The cold weight feels familiar and comfortable. I don't suppose I'll ever forget how to shoot a gun.

A tingling sense of anticipation starts at my toes as I listen to the heavy tread of the killer, ascending the stairs into our flat. It isn't too long before I hear his breathing, too. It's labored. Rasping. Strained from years of smoking and little excercise. A sturdy thump sounds just outside the door.

I shove the pistol under the cover of my coat. The glint of streetlight on the steel would give away my hiding spot in a heartbeat. Sherlock's eyes meet mine. He nods holds up three fingers, and I nod, almost imperceptively. His teeth flash white in a smile before he covers the pale skin of his face with his sleeve, blending in almost completely with the shadows he's inhabiting.

The door to the flat swings open as our man advances in, belly straining his shirt, gun case in hand, and completely oblivious to our presence, he takes three long strides and is at the window. The assassin slides it open. Dark eyes peer from under a buzzed batch of hair at Lestrade's obvious figure.

"You ain't too smart, for a detective," he grumbles as he pulls out his rifle. "Shoulda known somebody would come after ya. Shoulda gone home tonight." The tripod is set up. He places his gun in position smoothly and professionally. His meaty finger lightly touches the trigger.

Lestrade's shadow shifts.

Sherlock holds up three fingers in the corner.

One finger drops. My muscles tense.

A second finger drops. The hand on my gun tightens.

The last finger curls up with the rest, and that's when I jump.

-x-

Lestrade doesn't know whether to be bored, angry, or excited as he sits in his chair, just off to the side of the window, his shadow mimicking him from its spot on the window shade.

Of course, it's obvious what Sherlock is doing. He's setting Lestrade up as a target for someone to shoot. Who, exactly, is the trap for? Lestrade has absolutely no idea. Why, exactly, would he want to kill Lestrade's shadow? He has even less of an idea. But he still cooperates, waiting for either his phone to buzz with another text or a shot to shatter the glass.

As prepared as he thinks he is, however, Lestrade still jumps about a mile when the bullet crashes into the room, leaving an explosion of shards in its wake. His nerves take another shock as his phone, once again, vibrates with a text message.

_Call your friends. Party inside._

_ -S.H._

A few seconds later, Lestrade is barking, "Bring the force down to 221b. Baker Street. I do believe we have an arrest to make."

Then he is dashing away to see a living Sherlock and his brand new inmate.

-x-

The assassins finger manages to squeeze of one silent shot before I pop up, holding out my pistol to his head.

"You're under arrest!" I shout, putting as much authority as I can behind those words, hoping with all my heart that Lestrade is un-shot and will fulfill my threat. He whips toward me in surprise, dragging his rifle around to point at my chest. I knock it away, sending the bullet intended for my heart ripping through the wallpaper behind me, and kick forward powerfully at his knees. There is a sickening crack, and the assassin tumbles to the ground. A groan of pain emanates from his place on the carpet. My gun is trained steadily on his head.

"Excellent work, John," Sherlock melts out of his place in the shadows, a triumphant look on his face.

"You…" the man gasps, seeing Sherlock's face.

"Yes. Me. The one who's friends you were sent to kill," Sherlock's tongue trips slightly over the word 'friends' but he recovers, a smug grin settling on his face. The man, fear clouding his face, makes a pained lunge for his rifle, but the butt of my revolver smacks into his head and he falls again, this time out cold.

"Well," Sherlock muses. He nudges the figure with his toe. "That was a rather exhilarating occurrence, wouldn't you say?"

His eyes meet mine, and I know he can see the adrenaline that has pumped its way into my body, stilling my shaking hands and setting my muscles on an excited fire.

"—Yeah," I say. "Rather exhilarating."

We share a smile before Lestrade bursts through the door. Behind him is a bumbling bunch of fellow officers.

They all pause in momentary shock at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, alive and well and in his old flat. All except for Lestrade, I should say. He gives Sherlock a glance-over, looks unsurprised and unimpressed, and then looks to the prone body at our feet.

"And who is this?" He asks.

"This," Sherlock states proudly, "is public enemy #1. Who we seem to have apprehended for you quite nicely." The officers accompanying Lestrade look up at his words and sheepishly store their guns away, three of which had been pointing at the unconscious man.

"Of course you have," Lestrade mutters.

"What was that? A thank you?" Sherlock milks.

"Bloody show-off," Lestrade mutters, gesturing one companion to handcuff our prize.

The officers haul the assassin out to their squad cars, leaving Sherlock, Lestrade, and me in a familiar scene, the fresh evidence of a crime surrounding us, the thrill of the chase pounding through my veins, a superior look on Sherlock's face, and a begrudging gratitude and wonder on Lestrade's.

There are a few seconds of silence. We are all drinking in the moment.

"So," Lestrade states.

"So," Sherlock responds.

Lestrade looks around and sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets. Suddenly looking very tired and very annoyed, he returns his gaze to Sherlock.

"You have an awful lot of explaining to do.


End file.
